Sandprince
by Fanny-1986
Summary: Post-AatKoT. Mozenrath is back. He is after power and revenge, of course. And what Mozenrath wants, he gets.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: recognisable? Not mine.

**Sandprince**

**Chapter 1**

- Aladdin!

- Jasmine!

They wished his father and Iago all the best there was to wish on the road, they were about to come home and, you know… it was supposed to be their first night together as man and wife. And it would have been just so, but…

But for the storm.

A court chronicler bent on pulp fictioning just about anything and everything that came his way would love to insist (and he did) that sky was pierced by torrents of excruciating rain that came down onto the couple's heads, and don't forget about their means of hovering transportation. That poor thing was drenched to the skin, or to the thread, more likely. And when the whole see-dad-and-parrot-off-then-come-back situation began to look as if nothing was about to get any worse, a tornado came out of practically nowhere.

- Hold on!

- Aladdiiiin!..

Not so far away from that heart-, gut- and whatever-wrenching scene there happened to be a certain Citadel overlooking a city. A man appeared in the tower window. He watched the tornado as it tore the rug, the youth and the girl apart. A cat with uncharacteristically blue coat and wings kept gazing beside him.

- O mighty Chaos, I am profoundly grateful.

- Nonsense. – a cat-like animal winked at the man. Scratched. – If the likes of Aladdin get their way all the time, the world turns grim. Not to mention terribly predictable.

A hungry flea was inching closer to this nicely blue and wingy, tasty piece of tomcat. She'll partake of his blood, and grow ready to lay eggs, and then… Something heavy, shaped like a human thumb, crushed her, and she was no more.

- Thank you. – the-cat-that-was-not-really-a-cat stood up. Nodded at the man. – It's nice meeting you, and the sandbox was a delight, I admit. We should do it again sometime.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The sand was everywhere, literally. In her mouth, in her hair, in her clothes… And it was so dark round her, the princess of Agrabah couldn't see much past her outstretched hand! She couldn't quite figure where that tornado brought her. And what of Carpet and her husband? Are they?.. A group of somebodies was coming her way. Princess Jasmine did not really know if they were human, it was way too dark.

They approached her. And then… how wonderful! She felt so peaceful all of a sudden. These droplets, oily and fragrant, sliding down her cheeks… if only she could remember her name and was not lost. She was lost, wasn't she?

…And then she saw light.

Up there, in the window, and there was a man too. A man that could not sleep. Was it so because of her? Maybe yes, maybe he knew her, and was worried, and...

His eyebrows were knitted. He watched an hourglass with peculiar, fluorescent sand in it. Anxious. Hopeful? One of the silent guards that carried her, the greenish one, lifted up his saif in salute. The man in the window forgot about his hourglass.

- Finally! Bring her in.

That voice... Like a whisper in the dead of night. Did it sound relieved, happy even? And she felt so tired... Oh, but did she know that man? Yes. Maybe. No. Or it wasn't her hair only... filled with sand. The doors with snakes crafted onto them creaked apart. The guards brought her in.

* * *

He gave Aladdin's bride… no, scratch that. He gave the wife of sultan's court jester a once-over. Breasts – acceptable. Waist? Good enough. And those thighs… He placed a gloved hand on her stomach. The gauntlet flashed green. It felt oddly comforting. The man smiled at her again, and spoke. Oh, she must've known him: he did sound familiar.

- She will do, Xerxes.

- Will do, will do!

Could she recognize the other voice? No! Yes. Maybe... The lamps flickered. An eel sleazed by the man. Wait! It's official: she hit her head, and hit it hard. Talking _and_ flying eels? Honestly!

A cloud of _something_ enveloped her. Tingling, soft. How peculiar: she had no more sand left in her hair, and her body felt refreshed and ready… for what? Oh, but she was tired. Sooo tired.

* * *

- Is it just me… or did you really enjoy our date, princess?

She murmured in her sleep. The man next to the woman in bed inhaled the aroma of her hair. Amber married to jasmine. His mother loved those, and then some. Like roses blue and full of memories.

- Never mind, Your Highness.

The moon in his window was getting bigger and brighter, pushing every single cloud off. The man checked to make sure that pillows bulged under the girl waistdown just the way he wanted them to. Oh, but it was getting hard to move. He couldn't feel his legs properly anymore, and his good arm was turning to lead, and quickly.

- Sweet dreams, my sleeping beauty. Soon you shall find me extremely handsome, bright and what not.

He brushed her stomach with that gloved hand of his again. The gauntlet flashed white simmering into green, and the flash dissolved. The man chuckled, the chuckle dying in a weak gasp. Oh, but it was getting hard to laugh… and to breathe.

Morning came, bright and fresh, as it usually does. The maid was magically removed from the man's bedchamber and his kingdom, and the man stayed where he belonged.

He was dead, of course, but a triumphant grin refused to leave his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Mozenrath was dead. A drop of magically blue rose scent onto his white shroud. No extras. He was leading them to prosperity, he beat Destane, he curbed the black sands. They were serving him, he was protecting them. But their sultan was dead, and they were alive and had to…

- Is everything ready?

- Yes. Carry him out into the street.

The men walked, and their faces were solemn and calm, in an appropriate manner. The flying eel could not lie, their kind master had everything under control: no one would dare to disturb the Land of Black Sands. Model taxpayers, well-mannered merchants and respected craftsmen could go on with their lives, could work. Their sultan gave them his word, and Mozenrath never lied to them. Doors opened, curtains were drawn apart…

Mozenrath was dead. He turned all the local cutthroats and thieves into mamluks, his humble servants, he tamed monsters, he made sure their children would never starve. He gifted them with his smile, he ruled them, and they loved him. The women looked on as their sultan was carried to his grave. He was so young! So handsome in that foreign, pale-skinned way… Those who were old enough to be his mothers remembered another man just as pale-faced, a slave. Why had their master Destane, may the black sands swallow his lifeblood, purchased such a disobedient one?

They remembered. As if just the day before… Tall, pale, dressed weirdly, with a gauntlet on his right hand. He must've lost the second one… The guards held him, and he struggled to free, but not himself – her. Just as pale. Some do say that such kind makes bad slaves: they pine away from their land, where treetops support the sky and the rivers are cold and full. The father of their sultan was first to go, while his mother… if you asked servants from the Citadel… but they would never tell anyone anything: also became mamluks, the cowards. Always were, always have been! To be, half-dead or alive – just don't you kill them permanently! Here they were, grew quiet, bunched up, aiming for a sink in the black sand… afraid of the master's wrath, having not a bone that is alive left, and still – afraid. But Mozenrath was dead, and the dead seem to not be able to be after revenge.

- But can he turn into a…

- A mamluk-eater? Not likely, but I don't envy your lot, the first grave shift, you poor thing.

- Shut up!

Mozenrath was dead. The funeral train of the living proceeded, as it was supposed to. The women kept watching. Those who were young enough to be his daughters sighed and thought that the world was kinda unfair. Why do young, interesting sultans like their one die? He taught them how to pick costly petals of roses blue their mums used to make that monster-expensive attar, and how to go all the way through picking with their memories intact. And he treated them to pears, and he told them jokes… So why masters like this one die, and young too? They didn't know, and their mums, dads, and elder siblings didn't want to explain. Or maybe they didn't know what to say, and kept quiet, but Mozenrath was dead, and it was enough to make them cry. Yet their sultan used to say he liked it when they were laughing, didn't he?

Mozenrath was dead. And blue roses must bloom above him. The women who were old enough to be his wives stood on their knees. The sun had set a long time ago, and huge, bright stars were giving them light. Magical flowers had to be planted into that fresh, velvety soil that is to mix with black sands, and the planting had to be done just so, at night, and the roses would take root, and then…

Drip-drop. Raining? They've got time to finish. They had to!

- Don't rush. I appreciate labour that is whole-hearted.

And it thundered, and the downpour paused half-way to the women of Black Sands to let them make their work complete.

… Later on, they talked back home in the city, gulping down happy tears, they said, we saw the late sultan, he looked like a man built of thunderclouds and stars, he watched from above, he talked to us… And the men nodded at their wet wives talk, serious and respectable.

- And he said too that his heir's to come back to the Black Sands, for sure, and we will recognise him, and everything will be fine!

The men agreed, and the mamluks soaked at their respective posts. The downpour rushed into seven deserts. The blue magical roses turned to the sky.

After all, Mozenrath never lied to them.

* * *

- Jasmine? Jasmine! – strong arms grabbed her by the shoulders. – Dig, Carpet, dig!

She was almost buried in the sand. How peculiar: digging-out carpets and a very familiar voice that was filled with relief! Now she felt like opening her eyes. Or not. Not yet... For the sand did not bother her at all, even if… Well, it was everywhere, literally. In her mouth, in her hair, in her clothes. But oh, she had such a wonderful dream, no measure of sand could spoil it. And what was it, again? The dream. Her dream. She was not quite sure, but it made her smile anyway.

- Jasmine!

Wait, she did remember. At least some of it: there was a man. He was holding onto her, strong yet gentle, and he whispered the name in her ear so unlike this other man, shouting and shaking her as of now.

* * *

- Did it hurt? Jasmine, I'm sorry, but…

Hurt? Oh, that… no, it didn't. What's a bit of blood on beautiful bedsheets, it'll come off with a bit of scrubbing and water, she was sure. Waiting for five long, very long years, on the other hand, and getting _this_ instead of all hopes and… no, it did not hurt, not really. It didn't!

The woman smiled at her proper, heroic husband. After all the sand was washed away and forgotten, and her father was told a lie about playing in the dunes, and their wedding night finally started properly… she wasn't hurt at all.

She was not!

But she couldn't shake off a… _feeling_ either. A feeling of a stranger with her. A taste of his kiss. A whisper of his voice stealing into her ear, unfamiliar, yet so, so… man. And his… _touch_. It was wonderful.

- No, Aladdin, it didn't really hurt. And you were wonderful!

He smiled back at her and went on to snore happily. Princess Jasmine lay by her husband, a woman that could not sleep. The ceiling of their proper bedroom was so very fascinating, who could've known! Who could've told her…

Tears ran down her cheeks, quietly. Oh, but it did hurt. And she wanted to get away from this room, this land, this everything, if only for a moment. And she absolutely needed… a pear. Yes, definitely. Princess Jasmine crept to the bowl of fruit down there on a small table by the window.

Delicious!


End file.
